


Voices

by glacis



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-28
Updated: 2010-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-06 18:40:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bashir's reaction to Vedek Bareil's death is to go deep inside himself - and he doesn't much like what he sees, or hears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Voices

Voices by Sue Castle (1995 - written before canon version of Bashir's past and so is AU)

 

Her voice was soft, almost wistful, as she said goodbye to a man who could no longer hear her. Bareil had finished his work and slipped away earlier that evening, fighting to the last breath but unable, at the end, to fight his own body for his life. Kira Nerys had fought as well, fought the need to keep what was left of him with her, and fought her own need to deny the truth.

The essence of Bareil had diminished with the implant of the positronic brain, but Nerys had held to the hope that he would somehow be able to pull through. There had been no peace for her when his body revolted from the experimental treatment one last time and she and the Kai had released Doctor Bashir from his duty to keep Bareil alive. Perhaps, in the cathartic act of opening her heart one final time, pouring her broken words into his unhearing ears, she might find a measure of rest.

"I'll clean up here, Mer. It's been a long day. Why don't you go home and get some rest." Julian Bashir dismissed his nurse, and after a serious look at his face, she nodded and turned to go.

"Don't stay too late, Doctor. It's been a long day for you as well." Her warm concern reached out to him, but he contented himself with a nod and a slight smile. It would be some time before he would be able to rest ; the adrenalin from fighting to save Bareil's life was still running high, as was his anger at Kai Winn for her actions over the last few days.

He moved wearily, almost mechanically, around his surgical unit, straightening instruments, powering down equipment, going through the motions of a normal evening with hollow eyes and a dry throat. Although he'd told his nurse to go, he hadn't been able to bring himself to leave quite yet. The low murmur of Kira's voice in the next room undulated gently almost below the level of his hearing, so that he didn't catch her words, but was wrapped in the overwhelming feeling of loss in her tone. Unable to stop himself, he drifted closer to the doorway and found himself silently waiting, listening to his friend say goodbye to her love.

The pain in her voice reached out to him, and he deliberately stepped back, unwilling to intrude on her grief. He forced himself to walk into his office, made himself sit at his desk and officially record the end of the Vedek's life. Sometimes he could distance himself this way, taking the horror of death and reducing it to dry medical terminology. By recording the facts and shutting off the memory of the person, he could complete his duty ... and it was the only way he could complete it. If he let himself think about it for too long, he would be paralyzed by the conflicting feelings of grief and failure he felt. Grief at losing a good man, and causing such pain to a friend, and failure because he had once again lost a patient.

He gradually became aware of the silence, realized he had finished the entry and not stopped the log from recording. He raised slightly shaky hands to his face and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, rubbing hard. It had been a hellish few days.

"Computer, end recording." His voice sounded rusty, and tight. Clearing it roughly, he levered himself from his chair and walked to the replicator, intent on a hot cup of tea. Before he made it to the wall, an unnatural sense of stillness caused him to turn toward the door. Kira was standing at Bareil's shoulder, barely touching his skin, lightly tracing her fingertips over the relaxed muscles running along the collarbone and up the side of his throat, to rest for a moment at the heavy chain of office laying along his ear, before retracing her path back to his shoulder.

She wasn't making a sound, and her face seemed composed, but tears rolled down both her cheeks to splash against the hospital sheet covering his chest. Her eyes were opened but she was looking at something Julian couldn't see, and the soul-weary sadness in their dark brown depths made his heart clench. She had seen too much pain in her life, lost too many loved ones, and he hadn't been able to save her from this loss.

And he should have been able to, if only Bareil had listened, if only Winn hadn't been such a coward, if only ... if only he'd been just a little more skilled. As Kira bent to place her lips against Bareil's still mouth, Julian turned away, startled to realize that his own cheeks were wet. He didn't remember the last time he had cried over a patient. But then, he didn't know if he was crying for Bareil, or Nerys, or himself.

Without making a conscious decision, he found himself clearing his schedule for the next two days. The appoint- ments were all routine, anyway, and the physicals could wait. The immunizations could be handled by his nurse, and the tissue samples certainly weren't going anywhere. He could finish the analysis next week if he wanted to. He left a message on his nurse's terminal, letting her know where he would be, and slipped out the back way, careful to avoid Kira, not wanting to break in on her time alone with Bareil.

He didn't want the company of others, really felt more like hiding than anything else. As he stood in front of the door to his quarters, he tried to think, force himself to make a decision, any decision. His mind seemed to reject any sort of effort, wound up in the knot of his loss and pain. He had managed to project such a professional demeanor, had even managed to convince himself that he was handling this so well, until Nerys had started to cry. Knowing how she hated to show emotion and how she considered it a weakness, he knew he couldn't go to her and offer comfort. All he could do was retreat, offer her solitude to recover, and castigate himself for his own failure.

His primary duty was to his patient. To protect and heal his patient. To keep his patient -- to keep Bareil -- alive. And once again he had not been able to do the job. His feet had decided what his brain couldn't, and he was in his darkened quarters facing his replicator, the door firmly shut on the outside world, not sure how he got there. But it seemed like a good idea. He hadn't had anything to eat since earlier that day, before Bareil's second seizure had threatened to rip the Vedek's mind completely apart. Perhaps he should have some dinner. He opened his mouth to order a dish of chicken curry and wild rice, and heard his voice request a bottle of single malt scotch. The replicator hummed, and the flask appeared. He looked at it for a long moment, knowing it was not the brightest idea he had had in awhile, but unable to come up with a single better alternative.

Sighing, he wrapped his long fingers securely around the neck of the flask and turned toward the low couch in front of the oval window. He loosened the constricting uniform with one hand and pulled off his boots with the other, slumping wearily on the hard Cardassian cushion, wondering about the mindset of a culture that couldn't design a single piece of comfortable furniture. Ignoring the tumbler on the table next to him, he raised the flask to his lips and took a long swallow. The alcohol burned a path straight to his stomach, threatening a quick return trip, but he ignored that urge, too, and pressed the cool glass of the flask against his cheek, still hot from his earlier tears. Gradually the queasiness left, and his head began to sing a little, reacting to the strong liquor on his empty stomach. He lay back, watching the stars, sipping from the bottle and trying to force his thoughts to stop chasing themselves through his mind, as the fire spread through his blood.

It wasn't working. He'd hoped it would take the edge off, dull his brain. Instead he found himself going over and over his actions the last few days, tying to figure out where he had gone wrong. Perhaps he should have kept his mouth shut, not told Bareil about the experimental treatment that would tear him to pieces. It had been a chance, but only for a short term resolution, and he just knew that if he had gotten him into stasis there would have been a treatment. Eventually.

He would at least have had time to work on it, given the best research effort he could to save him, tried to find a way to repair the radiation damage that he himself had inflicted on Bareil's brain when he revived him. But he couldn't have held back, not really. It wasn't his choice, in the end. It was his duty to lay out all the alternatives to his patient, and the right of the patient to make that choice. And he had been up front about all the risks, strongly urging Bareil to go with the safe treatment, to prolong his life until a cure could be found. So it wasn't his fault, not really. *Then why do I feel so damned guilty?* If only the words would stop pounding through his mind.

 

Wasn't my fault. I didn't know, Daddy* Sunlight, out of place on a space station. He could feel it when he lifted his face to the air, when he looked outside the darkness of the cave. His arms wrapped so tightly around the frail body of the little girl, rocking her to give her some comfort, not comprehending the meaning of the stiffness in her limbs. They had found him that way, after the storm had settled, the girl's father making a sound not unlike the one Kira had made, wrenching, guttural, unbearably soft.

His father stood back as the other man had unwrapped the boy's arms from his daughter, pulling her away from the youngster, cradling her against his body. Julian finally knew, looking at the man's face, that there was no hope for the little girl he had tried so hard to comfort and protect. His father, staring at him with typical lack of expression, his eyes cool, informing him that the flowering root outside the cave could have saved her life. Three feet from where he had sat with her in his arms and let her die. Let her die.

*Wasn't my fault, Daddy.* Of course not, Julian, but he thought it was. He made that clear enough. He always did. Only this time it wasn't another faux pas at a diplomatic function, yet another dismissing apology for his inept son, but a life. A death.

 

I'm supposed to be a hot shot doctor, multispecies specialist. The only thing I know is what's wrong with her. I haven't the faintest idea how to fix it!* Jadzia. So pale her markings stood out lividly against the creaminess of her skin. Her symbiont, rejecting her, having nightmares and hallucinations. She was his friend, and a corner of his heart was lost to her, whether she wanted it or not. Her life, slipping away, and all he could do was take her home. Take her home to a group of so-called doctors too worried about their own professional skins and their precious status quo to want to save Jadzia, willing to sacrifice her for the "greater good" of Trill society. But it wasn't Jadzia's greater good, it wasn't Sisko's, or his.

Too bad he hadn't the skill or the knowledge to help her. Too bad he had to rely on those who didn't have her best interests at heart to try to save her life. And too bad that Sisko had had to blackmail the doctors into helping her. While he stood on the sidelines, helpless again, not able to do a bloody thing but watch and wish he wasn't such a fool. He was supposed to be a doctor. Doctors were supposed to help people. Dimly he realized that he was getting very drunk, but he didn't particularly care. Maybe if he got drunk enough he'd stop thinking. Stop remembering.

 

Garak knocked softly, concerned when he got no response. He knew about Bareil's death, and knowing his young friend as he did, he was certain that Julian would be taking it badly. The doctor was a strong young man, but he was very empathetic for a Human, and Garak was worried about him. When a second knock still brought no response, he murmured a phrase in sibilant Cardassian, and the door slid silently open. Garak stepped inside, his eyes quickly adjusting to the darkness, and stopped in his tracks, appalled at what he saw.

"Doctor? ... Julian?" His eyes sought the sprawled form of the Human in the semi-darkness in the room. Julian lay curled on one side, staring blankly at the star field visible through the window, obviously not seeing a bit of its beauty. Garak moved closer, deliberately clearing his throat in an attempt to get his young friend's attention.

"My dear doctor, this will never do." His voice was gentle, matching the concern in his eyes. Julian slowly opened his eyes and focused them painfully on the Cardassian.

"Why the hell not? And who asked you?" The belligerence would have been more convincing if it were less slurred. Garak stopped a few feet away from the couch, assessing the situation and the level of company Julian was willing to accept. Not much, from the way he held on to the bottle tucked against his side. Garak had a sudden memory of himself, holding up the bar in Quark's, trying to drown out the pain in his head and lashing out at anyone who dared approach him. Even his dear doctor, who hadn't paid the slightest attention to the rebuff but had continued to reach out.

"Oh, no one," he continued the fractured conversation in an even, calm tone. "But I was concerned for your well being, Doctor."

"Nobody asked for your damned concern, Garak!" the younger man snarled in return. "Why don't you just leave me alone? It's none of your bloody business!"

"Nobody asked for your damned concern, Garak!" the younger man snarled in return. "Why don't you just leave me alone? It's none of your bloody business!"

Garak looked at him for a long moment, feeling for the right words. "You are my friend," he finally said to Julian, in a near whisper. "You have given me many things, companionship when others are unwilling to be seen in my company, someone to look forward to in a life often devoid of such anticipation, and even my life, at great personal risk to yourself, and at a time when I had repudiated any claim to my continued survival-"

"You don't owe me a damned thing!" Bashir almost screamed at him, cutting into the gentle flow of words that was threatening to recall him from the near state of forgetfulness he had almost managed to attain.

"Perhaps in your mind I do not," Garak continued, unfazed by the open hostility on the doctor's face. "But I consider you a friend, and I am worried about you."

It was too much for Julian at that point. He didn't want to have to deal with Garak's sympathy, or his company, didn't want to have to think at all, really. He just wanted to hide in the darkness and silence. With an inarticulate sound of mingled rage and sadness, he raised the now-empty bottle and heaved it toward Garak. The tailor instinctively ducked, and the glass shattered harmlessly against the wall. Garak's glance flickered rapidly between the figure huddled with his back to him on the couch, and the pieces of flask sliding slowly down the wall, and without another word he retreated from the room. Doctor Bashir was not responding to his efforts at outreach -- perhaps he should call upon reinforcements.

 

Finally. Something his father could at least have some pride in, even if he wasn't exactly interested in it. Junior champion, best in his class, set for the Federation round robin to determine the tennis champion at the next level. More adrenalin and heart pumping terror than he'd ever felt, knowing his father had actually managed to show up for the tournament. Knowing he was good enough, knowing he could do it, could step out on that court and be the best.

His heart in his throat, grip slightly damp but firm on his racquet. Giving it everything he had. Knowing, after all, it wasn't enough, would never be enough. Knocked out in the first round. His legs and arms ached from effort, sweat running into his eyes, as he slumped on the bench in the dressing room. He knew that when he dressed and went into the lobby, there would be no one to meet him.

Once more, he hadn't quite measured up. He had failed. Again. Disappointed Father. Again. Tears burned in his eyes but he refused to let them fall, knowing they would just be one more failure, a sign that he still wasn't measuring up to expectations. Coming to a stop outside the dressing room door, shocked at the sight of his father standing there, dreading meeting his eyes.

*I tried, Daddy* Not good enough, Julian. No surprise. Your reach always outdistancing your grasp, no sense of your own limitations, Julian, should have known you couldn't do it. Never quite as good as you could be, Julian. Gods, he hated the way his father said his name.

 

"Julian?" Jadzia Dax looked up from the readouts she was studying, somehow not surprised that Garak had managed to find her even here, in the small anteroom off the main conference room that she used as her retreat. She was beginning to think there wasn't a square centimeter of Deep Space Nine that Garak wasn't familiar with. "He's taking Vedek Bareil's death very hard, then." It was more statement than question.

"Yes. I went to his quarters to check on him, and see if he would like some company." Garak appeared ill at ease, and Jadzia knew this couldn't be easy for him. It wasn't in the little tailor's nature to ask for assistance, so he must really be worried.

"He was depressed, angry. And he was ... drinking. Heavily."

That caught her attention. It was unlike Julian to drink in excess, since he hated the lack of control that went with being drunk. "What was he drinking?" Maybe it was synthale, and Garak was misreading the situation.

"From the scent, I would say Earth scotch. Nearly a half liter."

Her eyes opened wide, sapphire in the bright overhead light. Julian was going to be one very sick young man if he drank that much real alcohol, especially being unused to it. He must be quite upset. "He's been working up to this, I'm afraid. Even last night at the celebration banquet, he was quiet, withdrawn. Not like Julian at all. He really didn't want to do the positronic implants."

Garak stared at her calmly, and she felt the force behind his placid blue gaze. *Do something!* Worry for her young friend, combined with his sense of urgency, decided her. Shuffling the reports together in a pile, she rose gracefully and headed toward the door.

"Let's go see if we can talk some sense into him, then." Garak smiled behind her back and followed her into the corridor.

 

She was so beautiful, and so independent. He'd fallen for her before he'd ever met her, ever saw in the flesh that face, those fierce eyes. He rolled over on the couch, closing his eyes, trying to drown out the starlight that hurt his eyelids. But when he closed them, all he saw was her hair, glowing like blonde-white silk under his hand. She had wanted to prove herself, determined to escape the confines of her planet and map the stars. Along the way she had fallen a little in love, with possibilities, and with the sweet, funny, handsome man who offered them. But he hadn't been able to hold her.

She had decided, the flying was more dear to her than he was, called by her culture and her family, and the present they shared was less important than her home. She had refused further treatments, accepting her "disability" in his natural surroundings, and she had slipped through his fingers. One more failure, on a more personal note this time, and Melora wasn't even the first.

He rolled over, flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. By now he had given up trying to suppress the memories, and just let them stream through his mind, hoping the images would numb him as the alcohol hadn't.

 

Frontier medicine. No wonder Kira had scoffed at him. Of course it sounded impossibly idealistic, and naive. It was. And it was the way he felt. But it was only half the story. Jadzia accused him of being a flirt, said he was a charmer, but a better friend than he'd be a lover. Of course he was a flirt. No one got too close that way. Friends were fine. They didn't take your self confidence, what there was of it after it had been trampled for years by all those times he hadn't quite been good enough, and stomp it into the dirt. They didn't take the feelings he offered and laugh at them, use them and then throw them back at his feet. A low moan rent the air, and he realized it was from his own throat. Even now, three years later, it still hurt so much more than it should.

She'd been his dream, a strong, delicately-drawn woman, all soft skin and long muscle. She danced into his dreams at night and stole his thoughts until she was all he could care about. He had so much going right, for the first time. His choice of assignments, all he had left was his orals and he had them down pat. She had agreed to marry him, and he was looking forward to a challenging position, research possibly, probably in Paris. He'd always loved the city. Finished his labs early that day, the instructors knew how hard so many of them had to study yet for their orals, had let them go early. He knew it, had been working at them so long he didn't need extra study. He wanted to spend this glorious afternoon with his fiancee. Hurrying through the still afternoon, it was so strange to see the living quarters so quiet. It was always so much crazier at night, with everyone in a rush to spend some time with their lovers, study, let off steam.

He swung the door open, puzzled by the muffled sounds coming from the back room. Perhaps she was stretching out, his love was always working. Pushed the bedroom door open, froze in shock. Not quite able to believe what his eyes were seeing, his mind rejecting the picture it saw, his Palis wrapped in an intimate embrace with another man, both oblivious to his presence. Backing silently away, letting the door slip from nerveless fingers, he retraced his steps out into the sunshine. Vaguely he wondered why the man looked familiar, then he remembered ... the chorus last night, the new dancer in from Sydney ... helluvan audition.

 

"Julian?"

He didn't want to talk to her. Hadn't talked to her in years, refused to listen when she asked him to, finally she gave up, said she'd have time. Time. Ha. By the time she decided what lies he might believe he was long gone, on a shuttle to...

"Are you in there, Julian?"

Light. Concerned. Contralto? That wasn't his ballerina. She was a sopran- Jadzia. What on Earth was Jadzia doing in his memories? He'd seen her already. Failed *her* already.

With concentrated effort, he lifted his head from the cushion and attempted to focus his eyes. At least his body was numb, even if his brain wasn't. A small corner of that brain whispered that he was being stupid, that this wasn't helping anything. But the voice sounded like his father's voice, and for once he was doing his level best to ignore it.

A knocking seemed to come from the shadows across the room, and he realized Jadzia was rapping on his door, asking permission to come in. He looked down at his crumpled, half on half off uniform, raised a hand to rub his palm across the stubble along his jaw, and sighed. Permission denied. He almost grinned at that, but the muscles in his face hurt too much for so much movement, and he settled for a grimace.

"Go 'way, Jadz'a."

She looked at Garak in disbelief. That voice hadn't even sounded like Julian's, it was so low and gravelly. She shook memories of similar occurrences from her own past out of her mind, and concentrated on the present. Julian wasn't Curzon, but she was finding herself reacting like Benjamin. She lowered her voice to a soothing purr, pitched just loud enough to be heard through the door, and started wheedling.

"Come on, Julian. It's just me, Jadzia. Let me in. I need to talk to you."

"No. Go 'way. Don' wanna talk to no--any-body." His accent was thicker than normal, and his words were slurry, but the determination behind them was strong. He wanted to hide, and he *didn't* want company. Jadzia sighed and settled in for a long session.

Garak heard the subtle whine of a replicator, and knew that Dax's patience wasn't going to work. Julian would just keep drinking until he couldn't hear anything anymore, and Garak wasn't willing to see that happen. He'd seen the boy's eyes, and knew that there was much more going on here than the loss of a patient, no matter how close the doctor had been to Bareil. And he wasn't willing to see this go any farther than it already had. Sparing one last glance at Dax, leaning uncomfortably against the door and trying to reason with someone who was beyond it, he turned and headed deeper into the habitat ring.

 

Stumbling a little when the room began to swing around him, Julian steadied himself on the edge of the replicator. Blast Garak, anyhow, now he had to get a new bottle. Why wouldn't they just leave him alone? It wasn't like he was worth anything to anybody, was worth the effort. He ignored the ongoing drone of Jadzia's voice and punched at the replicator, managing on the third try to get it to understand what he was requesting. Stupid Cardassian junk, had to keep repeating yourself for a simple drink. No wonder ever'body drank at Quark's. Little Ferenghi probably had all the replicators fixed so you had to beg for a drink. He refused to consider how ridiculous the thought was, it just seemed the type of thing that Quark would do. Had to make a profit, after all. He snorted at the thought of the bartender, not one of his favorite people, and reached for the second flask.

Fist wrapped somewhat firmly around the neck of his new bottle, he turned back toward the couch. Somebody had moved it. Now it was clear the hell and gone over to the other end of the room. Such a very long way to go. He contemplated the stretch of dull grey carpet between himself and the couch, and shrugged a negligent shoulder. Oh, well. The floor couldn't be any harder than the cushion on the couch. Tipping the bottle to his lips and ignoring the trickles that escaped and ran down the side of his throat, he slid bonelessly down the wall to settle in a heap on the floor. *Better here, anyway. No bloody starlight to make my eyes hurt* Satisfied with his seat, he closed his eyes and let his memories settle over his shoulders like a mantle, weighing them down.

His orals were a dim nightmare. He tried to focus his mind on the intense verbal grilling, but it would drift at odd moments, catching him up and causing little blank spots in his memory. He even misheard a question and blew one that a first year med student would have gotten half asleep. The finishing touch to the nightmare, his father's reaction when the rankings were announced. Second. Why does that not surprise me, Julian? And where is that charming fiancee, Julian? Don't tell me she's finally opened her eyes and found a better prospect. *Far away. As far away as possible. Far from her, far from his damnedable voice, as far away as ... Bajor*

 

He really hated to do this. The Bajoran major hated him, he felt, and intruding on her grief now was the last thing he wanted to do. But someone had to reach young Bashir, and Kira, of all the denizens of the Station, was closest to his thoughts at this moment. Garak drew a fortifying breath, put out his hand to knock, and hesitated. Was this really necessary? After all, it wasn't as though the Doctor was suicidal. He was just getting drunk. Perhaps it was his way of dealing with the loss of his patient, and who was Garak to interfere with this method of coping?

Then he remembered the soul destroying sadness in Julian's eyes, and the defeat that had clung to him like a shroud. No. This was more than just grieving for Bareil. And Kira was the only person he could think of who might be able to reach him. Castigating himself for his cowardice, he knocked firmly on the closed door.

Silence met his knock, then the door swished open, without any word from the occupant. Kira Nerys was sitting in front of her altar, not meditating, not praying. Just sitting, contemplating the flame dancing in the bowl sitting in the center of the altar top. Garak took a hesitant step inside, and the door shut behind him. Clearing his throat uncomfortably, he asked, "Major?"

Kira didn't look away from the flame, and didn't respond to his question. He stepped closer, not wanting to interrupt her thoughts, but wondering what to say next. She spoke before he could decide on a plan of action.

"It was the Cardassians, really." Her voice sounded far away and light, as if she was not really aware of where she was. Her eyes raised to meet his, and he sank to a seat on the floor beside her, not too close but not very far away. Deep brown eyes, immeasurably sad, met sparkling blue, and the Bajoran spoke her heart to the Cardassian.

"The occupation should have taught me something. War with the Cardassians took everyone away from me. My mother, my father, all three of my brothers. It should have taught me to stay away. To avoid love, because if you love somebody, you'll lose them. The Cardassians will kill them. War with the Cardassians will take them away from you."

Her gaze fell away from his, centering again on the candle flame. "Isn't it ironic? When the war was over, I thought I could love again. War wouldn't take him away, not any longer. Because there was no more war. And then what? Peace. War with the Cardassians couldn't take away my love, so peace with the Cardassians did, instead." A single tear traced it's way along her rounded cheek, catching in the corner of her mouth.

He looked away then, unable to continue to watch her grief. She forced her mind away from the image burning in it, Bareil, lying so still, and looked at the man sitting next to her. For some reason she couldn't define, his presence was a comfort. Perhaps it was his stillness. Or perhaps it was because, although Cardassian himself, he also had lost his homeland, when he was forced into exile.

Sweeping her eyes over the ridges of his face, she saw the lines of worry underscoring his eyes, and knew he must have felt strongly about his errand here, or he never would have broken into her solitude. Anxious to find something, anything to think about besides the hole where her pagh used to be, she pulled herself upright and addressed him.

"What is it, Garak? I know you didn't come here to sit and listen to me ramble." It was a good attempt at her normally brisk tone.

He lifted his head and regarded her somberly. "First, let me extend to you my most sincere condolences, Major Kira." She nodded, once, and he let it go at that. She probably would accept no more from him than those few words. After a moment of silence, he continued. "My other concern is for Doctor Bashir."

She cocked her head to one side, wondering what was wrong with Julian. He had seemed so composed at Bareil's bedside, the consummate professional. In a way, she was grateful for his strength, because it had allowed her to maintain her own, and kept her from breaking down in front of the others. Why would Garak think that Julian needed her for anything?

"What's wrong with Bashir? He seemed all right when I ... left the infirmary ... earlier." Her voice trailed off, and she stared fixedly at him, fighting for control, determined not to think about it any more. Not now. Not until she could handle it a little better. Distance helped at times like these. She should know. She'd been through them often enough.

"He has retreated to his quarters with a bottle, or two, of alcohol." She almost smiled, because it sounded more like something she would do than an action the doctor would take. But Garak looked unusually upset.

"So, he's getting drunk. Sounds like a good idea to me." The words were flippant but her tone was deadly serious. He shook his head.

"I saw him, Major. There is more at work here than the loss of the esteemed Vedek." She glanced sharply at him, but he was serious. Perhaps he *had* esteemed Bareil. Her love had had that effect on people. Even Cardassians.

"What do you think I can do?" She leaned away from him, unconsciously denying his concern. He carefully kept himself still, so she wouldn't feel pressured. But his voice held the urgency his body didn't betray.

"Talk to him. Please. Lieutenant Dax is trying, but he won't let her in. You have just suffered a terrible loss, and he is feeling guilty about -"

"Guilty?" Her indignant word cut across his plea. "Why on Bajor should he feel guilty? He saved his life! Twice! He gave me the opportunity to say goodbye-" She choked on the words and turned away from Garak, unwilling to let him see her lose control. He lifted a hand to touch her shoulder, and thought better of it, letting it fall back to his side with a sigh.

"He lost a patient today. He failed in his duty to Vedek Bareil ... and to you."

She turned back to him, her body tense, ready to launch a defense of Julian. After all, the doctor had done everything he could, had done more than anyone could ever have expected ... she saw the truth of her words in Garak's expression before she could utter a sound, and realized why she should be the one to talk to Julian. He wouldn't believe them from anyone but her.

She nodded at Garak, and he smiled at her in relief. Ignoring his hand, outstretched to assist her from the floor, she untangled her legs and stretched the kinks out. Looking at the candle for an instant, she closed her eyes. *Later, my love. When the wound is not so fresh* Turning from the altar she followed Garak out the door.

 

Jadzia was sitting in the corridor outside Bashir's quarters, her face pressed to the door. Her voice had grown hoarse, and she had the feeling she was repeating herself, but she couldn't stop talking. There hadn't been any sound from the room for awhile now, and she was starting to wonder if she should override the privacy lock and check on him. This really wasn't like Julian.

"How's he doing?" Kira's voice behind her made her jump. She twisted around to see her friend, followed closely by Garak, crouching down at her side. She shot a furious look at the Cardassian, who returned it blandly. Kira patted Jadzia's shoulder reassuringly. "It's okay. I need to talk to Julian anyway, and now is as good a time as any."

"I don't know about that," Dax replied, studiously ignoring Garak. "I have the feeling he's pretty well out of it by now."

"I think he replicated another bottle shortly before I left," Garak put in. Kira shook her head.

"Can we get in there? Or is it some sort of security lock out?"

"I think it's just a standard privacy code. You can override it." Dax shrugged. "I was considering just that when you arrived."

"Let's do it, then. I'll go in and talk with him.. Maybe it will help both of us."

The last of her words were soft, obviously meant for herself, but Dax glanced at her with concern. *Maybe it would* She gave the verbal sequence to override the lock, and stepped back to let Kira enter the room. The door slid shut behind her and Jadzia settled herself back in the corridor to wait. Garak lowered himself to the floor across from her, and gazed quietly at her. She looked back at him, and nodded slightly. Maybe it hadn't been such a bad idea after all.

 

He'd meant to escape. In a way, he had. No one knew the whole truth about Palis, although Miles had come close. No one knew how he really felt when he lost a patient, when he had to admit yet another failure. His father only contacted him once or twice a year, and the so-called conversations always went the same. Bashir rolled carefully onto his back, clutching the nearly empty flask to his chest. Bajor hadn't been far enough away.

At times like these, when he knew that he had not measured up yet again, that he hadn't been able to do the job, his father's voice pursued him. It whispered through his thoughts and chewed viciously at his brain. Cold. Quiet. Continuous. Not worth my time, Julian. You are a failure, Julian. Stupid. Worthless, Julian, useless, Julian, Julian...

"Julian?"

*GODS, HE HATED THE WAY HIS FATHER SAID HIS NAME!*

Kira stepped further into the darkness, stopping to allow her eyes to adjust before moving any further. She strained to see the couch, but he wasn't there. Perhaps he had managed to find his way into the bedroom? She continued to call his name gently, as she walked across the room and felt her way to the doorway. She hadn't ever been in Julian's quarters, and she was a little surprised at the decor. The walls were nearly bare, just a few ancient tapestries glowing in the dim light. Very few personal effects were scattered along the shelves, giving the rooms a curiously uninhabited air. The stark elegance was calming, but too impersonal for her tastes. Not wanting to turn on the lights if he was asleep, but unable to see him in the dimness, she blew a breath out in exasperation.

"This isn't getting me anywhere." The words were nearly a growl. "Computer, lights, seventy-five per cent." There. That way if he was stewed it wouldn't hurt as badly as full light. Her thoughts were cut off abruptly as she turned from the empty bedroom and saw Bashir crumpled in a heap by the replicator. *Julian!* She was by his side in an instant, tipping his head up, her hand light under his chin.

He looked like hell. She ran her gaze over his rumpled uniform, the blouse completely undone, pips askew where the turtleneck had twisted half around in his slide down the wall. An empty flask lay near his hip. His face was shadowed with beard, and his hands, when he raised them to shield his eyes from the light, shook. But it was his eyes that riveted her attention.

She was used to their shifting colors, from olive to mahogany when he was upset, to clear hazel when he was excited about something. But now they were a muddy brown, dull, with all of the life and sparkle drained from them. The whites were nearly red with swollen vessels, and his lids looked chapped, as though he had been crying. She recognized the look, had seen it on herself, recently. But Garak was right, there was more here than Bareil's death. This looked like it went deeper than the events of the last few days.

He tried to escape her light grip, and her fingers tightened, holding his head in place. She wouldn't let go until he looked at her. Finally, he raised his eyes to hers, and they stared at one another for a moment. Tears started in her eyes at the misery in his expression, and she drew her hand away and turned from him. Staring sightlessly into his living room, she found herself dropping inelegantly down beside him.

She could feel his attention, but now it was her turn to refuse to acknowledge him. After what felt like hours, he moved a little closer, until his shoulder lightly touched hers. She found herself comforted by the contact, and wasn't quite sure why.

"I'm sorry, Nerys." He barely whispered, but she heard him clearly. "So damned sorry."

"It wasn't your fault, Julian." She didn't see him wince. "You did so much for him. You brought him back to life, gave me the chance to have a little more time with him. To say goodbye."

"I failed. I should've protected him, should've made him listen. Should've blocked that bitch-"

"You couldn't do that, Julian." She cut him off decisively. "You did what you had to do, made him aware of his choices, *all* his choices, and in the end he was the only one who could make those choices. Thank you."

He looked at her incredulously. "Thank me? For what, pray tell? For not having the balls to tell Winn to back off?"

"You did." She met his shocked stare with a slice of a smile. "I read Odo's room reports. Did you know he makes routine recordings of any incidents involving high ranking visitors to the station? I reviewed the tape. You expressed yourself ... very well."

He half smiled, but it dissolved immediately into a scowl. "Not well enough. Couldn't get her to back off."

"It was what Bareil wanted, Julian. He wanted to bring peace to Bajor. And he did."

"Was it worth the cost?" The bitterness sobered him a little, and he remembered to whom he was speaking. "I'm sorry. That wasn't fair."

She grimaced. "It wasn't, but then neither is much of anything else that I've ever found." She thought for a moment, then turned to study the Human beside her. "And yes. For him, it was worth the cost. No matter what choices I would have made, or you, either, for that matter, it was *his* choice. And to him, it was worth it."

He looked away, staring at the stars showing through the window across the room. It seemed that Nerys had made her peace with Bareil's death. But then, for all that she had endured, she was a strong woman. The voices weren't pounding in her head like they were through his, weren't reminding her constantly of what a failure she was, how she could never do anything right, never was quite good enough... "Stop it!"

Her head whipped around, trying to find whomever he had spoken to. There was no one in the room with them, and she didn't think he meant her. "Stop what, Julian? Who are you talking to?"

He made an attempt to straighten his tunic, pulling himself to a basically erect posture on the floor. "No one. A'tall." He blinked owlishly at her and leaned forward, swaying slightly. "You should get some rest, major. It's been a rotten week."

She nodded agreement, and rose to look down at him. "Would you like a hand getting to bed?"

"No, shanks. Um, thanks." He shook his head, trying to stand, but his legs wouldn't cooperate. "M'feet's asleep."

She grinned, a little painfully. "More likely anesthetized." As she reached down and awkwardly hauled him up, she heard him whisper, "Not good enough. Can still think. 'Member."

After they navigated their way into the other room, she dropped him on the bed and proceeded to pull off his coverall. He wasn't much help, but he didn't try to stop her, either. When she'd managed to get his long legs tucked under the coverlet, she perched on the side of the bed and looked at him. She expected him to fall asleep, given the amount of alcohol in his system, but he just watched her, his eyes still dull and sad. Finally she couldn't stand the scrutiny any longer, and confronted him.

"What else is behind this, Bashir?"

"Whatcha mean?"

"This is more than Bareil's death." Her breath caught for a moment, but she forced herself to go on. Concentrating on him took her mind off her own grief, and she needed the distraction. "Why has this hit you so very hard? It's not the first time you've lost a patient. It's not even the first time you've ... lost a friend."

For a long time she didn't think he would answer her. Then, when he did, his voice was so low she had to strain to hear it.

"See that sculpture on the far shelf?" She nodded, and he continued. "It's a trophy. For being second in my class at Star Fleet Medical."

"You keep it here for show? It is pretty."

"I keep it here to remind myself of another failure."

She shot him a startled glance, but he wasn't paying attention. His eyes had wandered to a small plant, encapsulated in crystal. "See the flower?" She nodded again. "A death." She shuddered, but he didn't notice.

"What do you mean?"

"My father gave it to me. Told me to look it up." He shivered, and she instinctively laid a hand on his shoulder. "It's a medicinal herb. Saves a certain species of being from a nasty fever. Grows wild outside caves." She remembered something Dax had told her about Julian's past, and suddenly wondered at the insensitivity of a parent who could give such a reminder to his child.

"That plaque, on the wall." She glanced up at an ornate brass plate on a marble base, tucked into the corner of the room. "Tennis award. Last tournament I won before getting knocked out of the first round in the next level."

She looked around his room again, wondering how he could keep such painful reminders all around him. But he hadn't finished. The final thing he pointed out was the holo of a dancer, no more than ten centimeters high. "That's my reminder. Can't trust it. Should know better by now."

"Can't trust what, Julian?"

"Emotions. Heart. Whatever the hell you want to call it. Gets stomped. Every time."

She rose from the side of the bed and picked up the holo. Whoever she had been, she was beautiful. Her body, poised mid-leap, was strong and graceful, and her face was alight with the joy of the dance. Setting it down, she made a circuit around the room before coming to a stop beside his bed again.

"It's worth the risk, Julian. Yeah, you get 'stomped', and sometimes it hurts so much you wonder if you'll ever survive it. But at least the pain makes you remember you're alive."

He fixed a bloodshot stare on her and shook his head in disbelief. "I can't believe with the losses you've had, you still open yourself up for more."

"It's my father's fault, I guess." He turned his head toward the wall, but she was caught up in her memories and didn't notice. "He always told me I was the bravest, smartest, prettiest person on Bajor. That I could do anything, be anything. He was trying to keep our spirits alive, I think, knowing that the Occupation would kill us, down inside, if he didn't fight to keep us believing."

"How ironic."

"How so?" Sharply, a bit hurt at his dry tone. He lifted a suddenly sober face to her, and closed his eyes in frustration.

"Your father, living under a Cardassian regime, in the middle of famine and war, managed to instil a sense of pride in you that can see you through anything. Mine, in the lap of luxury, with every advantage that money could purchase, instilled in me the sincere belief that I wasn't worth the genetic material that went in to building me." Her gasp brought him back to the present, and he shut his mouth, sure he'd revealed much more than he'd meant to with that single statement. "Oh, ignore me. I'm just doing a bit of wallowing in self pity, and you certainly don't need to deal with that on top of everything else."

She stood looking down at him, seeming to stare right through his shaky defenses, to the little boy trying so hard to pretend that everything was all right. Turning on her heel, she left the room, and he was certain she was leaving his quarters. But she surprised him by returning almost at once, holding a steaming cup carefully between her hands.

"I'll decide what I need and what I don't, Doctor." She handed him the cup with a short order to "Drink up!" and settled down in the chair beside his bed. Fixing him with a determined glare, she continued. "So, talk. What's this about a waste of genetic material?"

He tried to draw away, but her eyes pinned him to the linens and he didn't have anywhere to hide. "You don't want to hear this, Nerys." He buried his nose in the fragrant steam, inhaling deeply, and recognizing the scent of a powerful Bajoran folk remedy. With the first sip, his head began to clear and the nausea caused by the alcohol began to fade.

"On the contrary, Julian. If I didn't want to know I wouldn't have asked."

*Asked? Demanded!* The thought slipped through his mind, but he found himself wanting to explain to her why he felt so guilty, why it was his fault that Bareil had died. Why, once again, his father was right.

"He was never really satisfied with my accomplishments, such as they were. You couldn't really blame him, I s'pose. After all, he came from a distinguished family of diplomats and soldiers. I can take care of myself, but I've always preferred to heal, not fight. And as for diplomacy ... well, if there was any way at all to commit a social blunder, I found it. From the first time I was allowed out in public, I've always managed to put my foot in my mouth." She gave him a puzzled look, and he explained, "Make an idiot of myself." She nodded her understanding, and he almost laughed. He would have, but it hurt too much.

"Anyway, every time he did manage to find time to show up at something I did, I managed to disappoint him. Second, not first. Not quite fast enough, or strong enough, or skilled enough. Never quite good enough."

"Oh, come on, Julian. Please. You're a brilliant doctor-"

"Who can't save his patient-"

"-and you haven't done half bad at ... so," her breath came out in a sigh, "that's where this all ties in."

He rolled over to look directly at her, and nodded, once. "Yes. If I'd been a little better, Bareil would not have died. If I'd been able to talk him in to a stasis field, he would still be around for a treatment, when it became available. I'd at least have had the chance to *try* to find a cure for him-"

"-And if only the spy hadn't stopped for lunch, the patrol wouldn't have caught him."

Julian looked at her in complete incomprehension.

"You're living in the past, Julian, with all these 'what onlies.' I thought you were a stronger man than that. You certainly seemed to be when you were body-blocking the Kai out of the way in order to get to Bareil. You seemed that way when you convinced me to make the decision he would have wanted, instead of hanging on like *I* wanted to do. And you certainly don't seem all that afraid of failure every day in the infirmary, when you treat those people who come to you, looking for help."

He looked at her for a long moment, lost in the certainty of her voice, unaware of how much longing there was in his face. She responded to his expression, reaching across the bed to gather him up in a fierce hug, startling them both.

"Thank you!" He started to say something, he wasn't sure what, and she shushed him. "Just be quiet and listen." He subsided, and she whispered in his ear, "Thank you for the time with my Bareil that I otherwise wouldn't have had. Thank you for caring so much, and trying so hard. Thank you for being my friend."

Before he could react, she released him. Standing up from the bed, she regarded him disapprovingly. "Now, get up, take a shower, and get some sleep. You look like you need it as much as I do."

His faint, "Yes, major!" hit her back as she marched out the door, then she turned for one final word.

"Don't forget what I said, Bashir. I meant every word."

She gathered Dax and Garak up with her as she swept out into the corridor, briskly reassuring them that he would be all right. Julian stared after her for a bare instant before pushing himself out of the bed and heading for the shower. For now, at least, the guilt had faded, and Kira's heartfelt words were louder than the voice in the back of his mind. His father's voice. A voice he would have to answer one day. But not this day.

end


End file.
